A More Painful Scar
by Flame Tigress
Summary: Draco Malfoy has been inducted into the Death Eaters -- and the Dark Mark branded on his arm is not easy to bear.


****

Disclaimer: I think you all know the drill. It's all J.K. Rowling's. I am making no money.

****

Author's Note: My first Draco-sympathy story! Read, review, etc., etc.

****

A More Painful Scar

Draco shouldn't have known where or when the Order of the Phoenix did its secret work. He shouldn't have known that Harry Potter would be in the dungeon passageway at midnight, concealed amid the moonlight and shadows by his Cloak of Invisibility. But Draco was an excellent spy, and he heard more than he should have known. He knew his way around Hogwarts as well as, even better than, any of the trio of miniature epic heroes that was authorized to sneak around late at night by their induction into the Order and their ordainment by the Lord of Fate as the saviors of the world.

Potter didn't have to know that Draco knew where _he_ was; Draco just wanted to say a few words – or a ranting monologue, as the case may be – to famous, bold, noble, heroic Harry Potter.

Draco didn't have an Invisibility Cloak to hide himself from view; he was cloaked only in the shadows and dark corners of the corridor. Potter wouldn't see his arch rival or know of his presence until Draco spoke. But Draco sensed when Harry was near; he couldn't hear footsteps or breathing – Potter was stealthy, Draco would give him that – but the time, the movement of the air, and his intuition or something of the like told him that Harry Potter was there.

"Do you think you're unfortunate, Potter?" shadow asked of thin air, a sarcastic, drawling voice.

The air became still as Harry stopped dead in his tracks. He knew Malfoy was there, in the corner; he was unsure if Malfoy knew that he, Harry, was in the hallway with him.

"That scar on your head is a heavy burden, is it? So difficult to be famous, to be the person everyone expects to finally defeat the Dark Lord and save the world." Draco laughed dryly. "Your scar hurts whenever You-Know-Who is near, doesn't it, Potter? It burns. But not as much as mine." Harry, startled, watched warily as Malfoy pulled up his robe sleeve and stared grimly at something on his left forearm. He straightened his arm slightly and Harry was horrified when the action revealed a black skull and snake branded into the pale skin – the Dark Mark. Draco Malfoy, like his father, was officially a Death Eater.

"For every time that little lightning bolt on your forehead stings, Potter, this burns a thousand times more. You haven't known pain, Potter. Pain is when your slavemaster calls to you with fire in the shape of death eating at your flesh. You pass out when your curse-cut twinges. But a true Death Eater has the strength to bear his pain until he answers his master's summons." Harry realized that Malfoy must think he was alone, or he wouldn't be spilling out the contents of his troubled soul like this. Malfoy just must be talking to himself, or to Harry in effigy, and his sanity must have cracked.

"Your scar is a hero's battle wound. It earns you fame, glory, admiration, even sympathy everywhere you go. You are The Boy Who Lived, the one who has thwarted the evil Dark Lord time after time. All this scar will ever earn _me_ is hatred and contempt. I'm a traitor to the wizarding world. That is what I get in return for the pain I bear – loathing.

"Is it hard to be the archenemy of He Who Must Not Be Named, Potter? Is it hard to be the one who hurts whenever the Dark Lord is near? Is it hard to be the one everyone expects to be the redemption of humanity? Do you think you've got it hard, being Voldemort's greatest foe?" Harry was surprised to hear Malfoy say the name, when he seemed to have been avoiding it.

"I can tell you, Potter, it's harder again by a thousand times to be his follower. The brand of servitude is more painful than the brand of enmity. It hurts far more to suffer at the hands of your own leader than your nemesis.

"So why did I choose to be a servant of the Dark Lord? Do you think _I_ chose this path? It is what is expected of me, just as you are expected to always defeat You-Know-Who in all his attempts to rise once more to power. Yes, my father expects it of me, but you do as well, Potter. You expect Draco Malfoy – unabashed Slytherin, villainous, prejudiced, Mudblood-hating serpent – to be a follower of Lord Voldemort, and you want to have no qualms about killing me when the time comes, knowing that I'm pure evil, not just a petty asshole.

"Just know, Potter, that when you kill Lord Voldemort, and when you kill me with him and all his other devoted servants, you will be killing me more than him – a thousand times more. All the Death Eaters will know when we die that we have done nothing worthwhile in all our lives; that we will die as we have always lived, the shadow of the supreme evil, doing its work in the mud.

"I don't need to justify myself to you, Potter. You don't need to understand anything about me, and you don't. You don't need to feel sorry for me; I don't feel sorry for you."

The quiet, controlled voice faded once more into the dust, the cobwebs, the cold, and the darkness. Draco sensed when Harry, after a few seconds' pause, moved on to do the secret work of saving the world. Draco wasn't sure whether Harry would tell Dumbledore every word or keep Draco's confession a secret, because Potter was so noble and honorable. Draco didn't care much, either. As he slithered silently away – unjustified to, not understood by, and with no sympathy from Harry Potter – through the darkened corridor, he felt as though a great burden had been lifted from his chest, though he had no idea why. Perhaps it was taking Potter down a peg that left him feeling so satisfied. Or perhaps he did need to justify himself to the person who hated him most, and be understood. Or maybe he was just justifying himself to himself, and trying to understand his own life.

He pushed his left robe sleeve up again and fingered the black image of the skull with the serpent through its mouth branded on his arm. It was a dubious honor, like Harry Potter's lightning bolt scar, to bear the Dark Mark; a dubious honor to be weighted down with the burden and the pain of servitude, but an honor still to be able to withstand it.


End file.
